Once Upon a Summer's Eve
Once upon a summer’s eve, when I was younger, I met a person over the phone.
She was the concerned mother of my daughter’s new best 14-year-old friend, Sandra Bone.
Our conversation led to psychical stories, when suddenly she asked, “What are you doing right now?”
Nothing, I replied. “Then we’re coming over,” says she, me and my dog, a malamute chow.
They arrived 12 minutes later, which did not give me any time to put the place back into place.
Twelve months would not have been enough, if I honestly had really wanted to save a bit of face.
I know you from another lifetime, she told me. I have eighty-four percent Indian blood, Cherokee.
I was curious, but alone too, and was hoping she did not have a weapon or the mean streak of three.
We ate cookies and drank lemonade ‘til she asked, “Where’s the wall that cannot be painted any color but pink?”
I was horrified at divulging so much to a complete stranger, wishing I’d remembered what loose lips sink.
It’s a mess, I warned her, but she was already running upstairs with her fluffy somber faced gray dog, a giant cuss.
The dog, Sky, shot straight up in the air as we rounded that dreaded cold-spot corner, and bound outside, past us.
The screen door slammed, we heard it loud and clear, but Sky did not stop running until he had reached the car.
“I’m a witch she told me,” I can sense stuff, and someone got hurt here, from awfulness, they got an awful scar.”
I was really feeling uncomfortable now, in my own home, wishing my uninvited company would go home.
They left two hours later, this strange woman and her sensitive dog, and I sat down and wrote out this poem.
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